


Like lions, like lambs

by sepherim_ml



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Consensual, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Gangbang (mention), Humiliation, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, M/M, Prostitution, Wincest - Freeform, season 1 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 03:45:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sepherim_ml/pseuds/sepherim_ml
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam hasn't seen his brother since he left his family for Stanford. When Bobby called him and begged him to check on Dean, he finds Dean in a nightclub, smashed and broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like lions, like lambs

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: OMCs/Dean, Sam/Dean. Season 1. With Sammy off at Stanford, Dean goes off the rails. Drink, drugs, sex, all more than ever. Eventually John (or Bobby) gives Sam a call and begs him to just check on his brother. Sam doesn't like what he sees) for February Comment Meme @ dean_slash  
> Beta: icelily01

_How bad can it be?_  
  
Sam asks the same question over and over in his mind while he is driving to the address Bobby gave him over the phone. He tries desperately to hang onto the idea of Bobby being wrong, because the idea of Bobby  _begging_  him to go and check on Dean is crushing and painful. ' _You're the only one who Dean'll listen to, Sam_ '.  
  
No, this is undoubtedly wrong, because Dean is Daddy's little soldier, not Sam's, and Dad is the only one who makes Dean obey without fuss, but Sam couldn't say no to Bobby, not when the old man uncharacteristically pleaded with him.  
  
 _How bad can it be?_  
  
Sam drives out of Stanford with that question ringing in his ears. His fucking pride doesn’t allow him to call Dad, but he tries to call Dean on every single mobile number he can remember, but his brother's voice never comes from the other side, just an automatic response informing him that the number he had dialled is unavailable.  
  
It never occurs to him, but Sam hasn't call Dean since the day he walked away from their father. Sometimes, when he is alone in his room, Sam scrolls down the list of numbers, almost dialling Dean's, but he never does. Dean doesn’t call either, but Sam isn't surprised. It could be because Dean is taking Dad's defence - like always - or simply because Dean shies away every chick-flick moments he comes across.  _He_  is the strong one, after all, Sam is the one who sometimes can’t sleep, thinking about Dean's hurt expression the day he left.  
  
Slowing down the car, Sam checks on the scribbled piece of paper, squinting his eyes to spot the right name of the road through the darkness. When he reaches the destination, he pulls over and gets out of his rental car, looking around with suspicious eyes. The address had led him to a nightclub with a flashy neon sign where a tall bouncer is denying or granting access.  
  
Sam looks down to the piece of paper, wondering if he should bother to call Bobby, because this can’t be the right place to find Dean, unless... Sam chuckles to himself darkly.  _Of course_ , Dean is in a nightclub, he’s probably hooking up with every busty stripper he can find.  
  
Sam debates with himself for a few minutes, then puts his hands in his pockets and heads to the club. It could be nothing, but Sam is there now, he might as well go in.  
  
The whole club is packed, with men groping men, girls sucking other girls' faces and heavy petting displayed without shame. Flashy multicolour lights pulse along with the music and the main attraction is the stage near the bar, occupied with a couple of almost naked strippers doing a sexual lap dance, while the tip rail is crowded with men laughing and drinking. In all that mess, Sam highly doubts to spot his brother. He snorts, annoyed, and he almost turns his back, deciding that he would have more luck finding Dean when he if he got out of the club, when he sees  _him_ .  
  
Sam doesn't want to believe that his brother, his womanizing, cocky brother, is  _that_  guy, the one who is putting on a show at one of the tables. He pushes several people aside, making his way through them with a lump closing his throat, but he stops before he arrives at the table, frozen in one spot.  
  
The guy,  _Dean_ , is sitting on the lap of a bulky, blonde man, his legs wide spread, back arched and his head tossed back, exposing his bare throat. The man is harshly stroking Dean's side, making him grind his hips sensually, while his other hand is curled around a bottle of alcohol. He raises it, to lower his head. Dean does, and the man presses the bottle against his half-open lips, forcing him to drink.  
  
They aren't alone, there are three other men sprawled on the circular booth around the table. Those fuckers aren't simply assisting in Dean's humiliation, but they are laughing, elbowing each other and talking dirty about Dean's sluttiness so loud that Sam can’t ignore their remarks.  
  
The blonde man laughs when Dean nearly chokes and a few drops of amber liquid spill down his chin, then he slaps Dean’s ass and Dean gets back to fake-riding him over their clothes. Or, at least, Sam hopes they are still clothed.  
  
Sam clenches his fists into balls, wanting nothing more than punch them all. Anger makes his blood boil in his veins and he quickly overcomes the shock of finding his big brother forced to be the main character of a twisted and humiliating show for only god-knows-why. When he finally walks to the table, he is furious. All eyes, except Dean's, focus on him, and Sam places a hand on his brother's shoulder, making him stop doing whatever he is doing.  
  
"What do you want, boy?" the bulky man asks, pissed. "If you want a slut, go find your own. This one's mine." He reaches for Dean's ass again, like he has the fucking  _right_  to do so. More alarmingly, Dean doesn't do anything to stop him.  
  
"Go fuck yourself," Sam spats. He grabs Dean's shoulder, pulling against him. "Dean, what the fuck -"  
  
Dean snaps his head up and Sam freezes. Dean's green eyes are bloodshot and glassy and he looks  _smashed_ , like he is on heavy drugs. He doesn’t seem to recognized Sam , he just stares at him, blankly.  
  
 _How bad can it be?_  Very, very bad. "Are you -? Dean, are you drugged?"  
  
The bulky man inserts a hand in to Dean's open pants, obviously caressing his hardness, and laughs again.  
  
"Bitch, why haven't you come yet?"  
  
Dean writhes and moans, looking like he is almost displeased with himself. He closes his eyes and his long eyelashes flutter. "I--"  
  
"Come on, or I'll have you naked on the main stage."  
  
Sam’s had enough. He grabs Dean's shoulders and pulls him on his feet, circling his waist with his arms when he stumbles and almost falls on the floor. Sam almost regrets it, because he really would like to have his hands free to beat the disgusting fuckers to death. "What kind of drugs did you give him?"  
  
One of the men stands up, while the others laugh. "Why don't ya ask our slut, here? He's the expert."  
  
Sam frowns, looking at Dean's boneless body, his blood frozen in his veins at the man's insinuation. He needs to take Dean safe somewhere, far away from this place. Fuck, Sam really regrets not having his gun with him. "Don't you fucking come near him again or I swear I'll kill you."  
  
The bulky man sneers, unimpressed. "He'll come around. He always comes around."  
  
Sam turns his back to them, throws Dean's right arm around his neck and he half-drags him towards the exit. Dean squirms at first, mumbling something about going back and doing the best he can, but Sam shuts him up. When they are finally outside, the cool night air hits them, making Dean shiver uncontrollably.  
  
"Calm down, Dean. I'm here," Sam whispers in his ear. They reach the car and Dean almost plasters himself against it, his legs shaking, both from the change of temperature and the effect of mixing drugs with alcohol.  
  
Under the street lamp, Sam takes a good look at his brother, worried. Dean looks skinny, his face so pale that his freckles pop out like dark spots and his hair is longer than Sam remembers. Dean raises his head with effort, still leaning heavily against the passenger door. His jeans are tugged down and Sam can't avoid seeing Dean's pubic hair, indicating that he doesn't have any underwear underneath.  
  
"... nt want to..." Dean mumbles. His lips are chapped and Sam doesn't really want to know why they are so cherry red, it makes him want to get back to the club and kill all those sons of a bitch. He can't, though. Dean needs him more and he can't leave him alone there.  
  
The cool air seems to be beneficial to Dean's drugged state, so when he squints his eyes, he actually stares at Sam, not just looking at him without really see him.  
  
Sam feels a surge of tears when Dean finally recognizes him. His whole face changes and something like disgust taints his features, while plain fear flashes in his eyes.  
  
Dean gasps, looking distraught, "Sammy," he exhales in a whisper. He looks away, ashamed, as he tries to zip his fly. "Don't - Don't look at me."  
  
Something cracks in Sam's chest, concern and sadness twisting a tight knot inside his belly. He reaches for Dean's cheek and he whispers back, "It's okay. It's okay, I'm here now."  
  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
  
Dean closes himself in a stubborn silence as Sam drives them to the nearest motel. He grabs his duffel and ignores the pointed look the owner of the motel gives to Dean.  
  
Dean goes straight to the bathroom and Sam sees him kneeling beside the toilet, tremors running through his body. In the blink of an eye, Sam is by his brother's side, kneeling beside him, draping an arm around Dean's shaking shoulders, feeling useless. When Dean finishes, Sam hands him a towel and Dean takes it, standing up while the other flushes the toilet.  
  
"How do you feel?"  
  
Dean ignores him, going to the sink and splashing cold water on his face, gargling some, rinsing his mouth. When he fights to stand up straight, Sam catches him. "Can you shower by yourself?"  
  
Dean nods absently, starting to undress himself with shaking hands. There's a sick feeling in Sam's stomach, something cold and painful that grovels in his belly and hurts his chest. Dean doesn't look at him, not even once, he just stares at his feet while he tries to slide off his clothes. After a few seconds, Sam moves to help him and Dean doesn't complain.  
  
There are so many questions he wants to ask - what happened at the club, did those men force him to take drugs, why is he so smashed, where the hell is Dad-- but this is not the right moment, with his brother barely standing up.  
  
Sam has seen him drinking and fucking before, he’s seen him in clubs and bars, but he was the one with the bucks to buy a dance or a drink, never the flavour of the night. Most of all, Dean isn't a person who takes drugs.  
  
Until now.  
  
Dean pushes him away while stepping into the shower stall, turning on the hot water. He has red signs of nails across his shoulder blades along with several vivid fingerprints bruises blossoming on his hips and his waist.  _This is not a beating_ .  
  
Sam needs to get out. He needs to breath, to understand, to keep his nerves under control. He goes back into the room, pacing the floor back and forth, glaring at his cell phone, barely resisting the temptation to call Bobby and yell at him. Damn straight, yell. Bobby has to know what happened.  
  
He sits down on the bed, rubbing his hands over his face, feeling so damn stupid for cutting all connections with Dean for the past two years.  _This_  isn't a once in a blue moon thing, no, this is something that has gone on for a while, according to what the fuckers had said. Or to the state Dean is in, anyway.  
  
As he hears Dean turning off the water, Sam stands up and retrieves some of his clothes from the duffle. He finds Dean drying himself with some lousy towels and he hands him the clothes wordlessly. Dean's movements are slow motion, difficult and stumbling, but he dresses all by himself and attempts a few steps towards the room, before Sam catches him and accompanies him to the bed, tucking the sheets and helping him lie down.  
  
That makes Dean snap out of his reverie. He wrenches from Sam, pushing him away. "Stop it."  
  
"Dean, what's wrong? You okay?" He touches his forehead, finding it warm but not feverish. Drugs and alcohol isn't a good combination and Sam would like to know how to deal with it, without having Dean trying to be a smart ass.  
  
Dean looks at Sam, with accusation written all over his face, like he is blaming his brother for the situation. "Why are you here?"  
  
"We can discuss this in the morning. Now go to sleep, Dean. You need it."  
  
Dean shakes his head helplessly. He seems so vulnerable, with his pale skin, flushed cheeks and dressed in too large clothes. Sam cannot make a connection between his cocky big brother and this new version of him. It tears his heart apart.  
  
"Please, Dean, go to sleep. We'll talk tomorrow." Dean struggles, but Sam coaxes him to go under the sheets.  
  
When Dean seems to give up to sleep, Sam sits on the edge of his own bed, looking at Dean's sleeping face. Despite driving for hours straight, he doesn't feel any desire to indulge in the pleasure of sleeping; the adrenaline, the disappointment, the blind rage is clouding his judgement, keeping him alert and on the very edge of breaking. He takes a deep breath, trying to clear his mind enough to think straight, trying to retrieve a shred of his hunter instinct.  
  
It isn't easy, because Dean’s on the plate this time. He is the one hurt and vulnerable and Sam feels so fucking guilty. He didn't call once, he lived his college life without thinking that something could go wrong in his family, firmly believing that the most dangerous thing they could be stumbling upon was a vampire nest. Where is their dad? Why is Dean in such state?  
  
He puts the pieces of that night together - the club, Dean smashed, the guys - and it makes him feel even more nauseous. He jumps to his feet, grabs his cell phone and heads outside. Bobby answers at the first ring, his voice alert and worried. "Sam! Is Dean -"  
  
"Why haven't you done anything? What the hell happened to him?" Sam takes a deep breath and cuts off Bobby's reply. "How long- How long has he- He's drugged! He took drugs! He's - Dean is-" He's one step away from fucking crying, for god's sake, and Bobby seems to perceive that from the desperate pitch of his voice, because his next words are almost soothing.  
  
"You're the only one who Dean will listen to. Fix him, Sam."  
  
Sam rubs a hand over his face. "Of course I will," he manages to say. "I'll take care of him."  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
It started when Dean got hurt on the first hunt with Dad. Sam was long gone and he didn't call to reassure Dean that he had made to California. As a result of their altercation, Dad took Dean with him on the first hunt he found, in Montana. Neither were prone to heart-to-heart moments, and what Dean buried in challenging remarks and passive-aggressive attitude, John ignored. Actually, John ignored Dean, apart from barking orders and sparing him some casual and resentful looks. It was obvious that Dean blamed Dad for his stupid ultimatum as much as Dad blamed Dean for not backing him up and forcing Sam to stay.  
  
As a result of bad communication and distrust, Dean got smashed against a wall by an angry spirit as soon as they stepped inside the abandoned warehouse. Three broken ribs, one broken wrist and a twisted leg later, John is at his firstborn’s side, frowning like Dean is nothing else than a disappointment.  
  
Giving up hunting wasn't his choice, it was more of a necessity. He was hurt and he refused to take any painkillers until it was too late and the pain was almost unbearable. John dumped his sorry ass on Bobby and took off for weeks, like Dean was nothing more than a liability.  
  
Painkillers were the only thing that allowed Dean to get out of bed some days. He was still on those meds when Dad called and asked him to go to hunt elsewhere.  _'You don't want to be out of shape, eh, son?'_  Dad had asked when Dean was about to confess that the pain was still there. He answered  _'Yessir'_ without thinking.  
  
When he finished the hunt, he went to a bar to drink and eye-fuck some waitress, his ribs still hurting too much for thinking about going over the foreplay stage. He didn't notice when the bartender put a pill in his glass and when it kicked in it was too late.  
  
The morning after Dean was covered in cold spunk - which was impossible to belong to just one guy -, tossed on the bed, his mouth and throat hurting as much as his ass, feeling nauseous and light-headed. It was his first sip of hell and slowly Dean started to go down that tunnel, mixing drugs with sex, allowing people to use him in every way possible, exchanging his body and his pride for a pill of paradise.  
  
  
Sam isn't supposed to know anything about this. Dad probably suspects something, or he knows and he doesn't care, considering his complete lack of interest in his older son's life. Bobby is Dean's weakness, because he called him to bail him out of prison and hell, that noisy son of a bitch is nothing but stupid. He doesn't have enough to do with Dean to convince him to do something like stop taking drugs, though. Dean half expects Bobby to call Sam, but he'd never thought that his brother would have come to collect him.  
  
But he had been wrong, Sam is there. He had seen him the night before, slutty and drugged, in a debauched state that now Dean is deeply ashamed of.  
  
  
  
Fuck that. Dean can do whatever the hell he wants. He wasn't the one who walked out from his own family.  
  
  
  
Dean wakes up with a groan, sitting up and trying to put the pieces together: drugs, Sam, motel. Fucking great.  
  
"Dean, how are you?" Sam's voice is worried and Dean hates it.  
  
“I’m fucking peachy.”  
  
Sam doesn’t seem to believe him, but he let go, picking up the argument of the last night instead of pushing it. "Can we talk, now?"  
  
"There is nothing to talk about" Dean's voice, on the other hand, is tired, rough. His whole skin is burning and itching. He stands up from the bed, where he probably slept an hour or two, and Sam is immediately imitating his movement, his arms ready to catch him in case his knees fail.  
  
Dean feels a wave of pride as he succeeds in standing up without stumbling.  
  
"What happened? What made you all slut and druggie, Dean? Where the hell is Dad?"  
  
Dean snorts. "Like you care."  
  
Sam throws his arms up in a helpless gesture.  
  
"Of course I care! I care about you, Dean! I'm worried, dammit! Where's Dad, by the way?"  
  
"Dad is hunting."  
  
"He doesn't know where you are," Sam gathers and when Dean remains silent, he gets the confirmation. "How did Bobby know?"  
  
"Because he doesn't take 'no' for an answer!" Because he cares. He really cares. Because he was the one who Dean called a couple of months ago, when he ended up in jail after a drunken fight in a bar.  
  
"He tracked you."  
  
 _All the way from Arizona to Nevada._  His own father gave up on him six months ago, but Bobby didn't. Dean is perfectly capable of seeing Sam's presence here as Bobby's last desperate attempt to bring him back onto the right tracks. He hadn’t called the authoritative John, no, he had called Sam and his puppy eyes. If there is anyone who can bend Dean's will it’s Sam. The very reason why Dean went off the rails in the first place. "What are you doing here, Sam? Why aren't you with your college buddies?"  
  
"Bobby called and asked me to check on you. I didn't expect - Dean, what happened?"  
  
"Nothing happened, dammit!" He would prefer if Sam was angry at him. Disappointed and disgusted. He's not ready for this calm, sympathetic attitude. It makes him feel worthy of something that he definitely isn't.  
  
"If you just tell me what's wrong, we can fix it," Sam tries again, this time with a calm voice, more like a plea than an angry order.  
  
"You left me," Dean blurts unexpectedly.  
  
Sam freezes and turns around, with that stupid befuddled expression, shocked. "I didn't."  
  
Dean stands up, furious, and he heads to the door. He can't handle this. He needs  _help_ , he needs ten seconds in heaven, he needs his drugs. Or a more excruciating oblivion given by alcohol. Or a wrecking orgasm. He needs to get away from Sam's stupid confusion.  
  
"I didn't." Sam's voice is broken when he repeats it. "I went to Stanford, Dean. I didn't leave you. I left Dad and his stupid vengeance, god, I didn't - Dean, I never wanted to leave you."  
  
"It's the same." Dean starts to feel walls closing on him. Sam's enormous hand grips his arm firmly. Dean can get rid of him in a heartbeat, but he doesn't. It seems that this is what Sam wants, because after a couple of seconds he moves by himself, leaving his arm in favour of wrapping him in a tight hug.  
  
"Dean, I'll make it better. I'll fix this." He doesn't deny Dean's words, taking the blame, feeling it like a weight on his chest.  
  
If Dean wasn’t so starved affection, he would struggle more, push Sam away, but, hell, he  _is_  starved for something to fill the deep hole carved in his chest. He wants Sam with him, to fix him, to come back into the place where he belongs, with Dean himself. He cannot say it aloud, but he lets Sam hold him and he buries his face, his sadness, his self-deprecation, in Sam's chest, hoping that this is an acceptable answer.  
  
"I'll fix this."  
  
Dean doesn't believe in Sam's promise - because it's Sam's, and he knows well enough what Sam really wants for his life - but he cannot deny that he  _needs_  him _so much_ , that he is content to live in that illusion as long as his brother is sticking around.  
  
 _So fucking pathetic._  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
Once he makes Dean agree to get help, everything else is irrelevant. Sam is no fool and he knows that this process will be long and difficult for both of them, but nothing else matters as long as, at the end of the tunnel, Sam will have his idiot brother with him.  
  
He needs his brother back, he needs to have Dean fighting him again or remarking back. Dean jokes, he laughs, he pulls stupid pranks and he is always comfortable, moving around in whatever place like he owns it. Sam is facing a new version of Dean, broken, scattered, and he doesn't know how to behave. Part of him wants nothing but to wrap his arms around Dean's frame and hold him, but it might not help Dean to snap out of whatever shitty situation he’s in now. Another part of him needs to understand, to clarify, to make Dean promise not to do it again, even if it means shaking him until his teeth rattle to put some good sense in Dean's dumb skull.  
  
Months pass and Sam starts to see something of the old Dean. At first, it was the look in his eyes, less dull, less bloodshot, more lively and accepting. Then Dean stopped snapping at every word Sam may say. All things considered, it shouldn't be a surprise, the weary and suspicious look that Dean gives him sometimes - like he is half expecting Sam to wake up one day, bolt and go back to his old life - but it is and it burns Sam.  
  
They hit the third month of detox for Dean. One night Sam comes back to their rented, crappy apartment and he finds him with a stranger, grinding against him like he is rubbing something off- a scratch, a long-suffering desire to be fucked, the rest of his self-esteem -, writhing and moaning like a prostitute.  
  
The man is bulky, but not very tall, he has Dean bent over the crappy armchair they found beside a trashcan, half naked, prepping him with long fingers, while he is sweating and talking dirty to Dean. Damn, Dean is taking every single word, every insult, with something like acceptance.  
  
He looks up, he spots Sam, his eyes open a little in something like shame, but then he sets his jaw and opens his legs. He's challenging Sam to do something, to accept that Dean is worth nothing more than a cheap fuck.  
  
The grocery bags fall from his long arms as Sam crosses the room and punches the bastard stranger in the face. The man stumbles and falls on the floor, his cock still hard and leaking. "What the fuck!"  
  
"OUT!" Sam takes the man's arm, half dragging, half pushing him to the door. "OUT, AND NEVER COME BACK, YOU SON OF A BITCH!"  
  
After he throws him outside, he shuts the door and turns to Dean. His brother is standing, still with his pants down, cheeks flushed red and an angry look in his eyes. "Sam, you have no right -"  
  
"I HAVE!" Why doesn’t Dean understand? "I HAVE, DAMMIT, DEAN! I haven't spent the last few months trying to get you on your feet just to lose you again!"  
  
Dean flinches, then his eyes darken, filling with anger. "Why are you still here, then? You should be at Stanford with your college buddies," Dean spats with hatred. "Not being the caretaker of a slut!"  
  
"You're not a slut, Dean! You are - you are pretty damn much everything and it kills me seeing you in the state you’re in now! This isn't you!"  
  
"Maybe it's me, maybe it's all I've got."  
  
"You have so much more," Sam sighs, walking towards him, until they are standing a few inches apart. "You have so much more to offer."  
  
Dean doesn't seem to believe it, he starts to shake his head, to snarl another remark, but Sam captures his lips, kissing him softly, trying to put in all the love he feels for his brother into that intimate contact.  
  
  
When Dean reciprocates, Sam knows he’s won.


End file.
